


The Last Movie Night

by i_gaze_at_scully



Series: Movie night [7]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer Arc (X-Files), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Set during Redux I/II. Not to worry, the movie night series is not over. Fuck cancer 🖕🏼





	The Last Movie Night

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Redux I/II. Not to worry, the movie night series is not over. Fuck cancer 🖕🏼

_Ping._ **beep.** _Ping._ **beep.** _Ping._ **beep.**

Soprano and bass, an operatic tête-à-tête. A ticking time bomb strapped up intravenously. 

The nights are the worst. Loved ones walk out, demons crawl in. There is no hiding in a hospital room, not at night. Even the best poker faces, the bravest and hardest and most practiced, crumble under the weight of a hospital room at night. 

She’s dying. Really, truly, imminently dying. 

She is not at peace with it, but rather numb to it. She raged and raged against the injustice of dying (of _cancer_ ). She raged until her body, weakening each day, could sustain rage no more. She’d cried then, hard and ugly, snot dripping down her nose, breath ragged. And now… now she felt nothing. _If you’re going through hell, keep going,_ Churchill had said. There was no ‘through’ for her, though. Not anymore. She stood at the precipice, heels in hell and toes wiggling over the abyss. This was the end of the line.

But the body doesn’t give up till the last, and there’s the rub. She can’t accept death until her body does. 

She is not alone with her thoughts when the TV is on, when she can glue her eyes to something and force her brain to work to decipher the visual input. 

It’s far past visiting hours when he knocks on her door.

“Hey,” she croaks, vocal chords dry from lack of use. 

“Hey yourself,” he says. He doesn’t ask how she’s feeling, and she could kiss him for that. Nothing is worse, she’s found, than dying of cancer except for when people ask how that’s going for you.

He pulls a chair right up to her bed. She moves her hand closer to him. He takes it, traces her lifeline like a palm reader, grazes her inner wrist like he’s checking for a pulse. 

“Whatcha watching?” he asks, nodding at the television. She has absolutely no idea. “Is that _Citizen Kane?_ ”

“Very well could be, I think I’m on AMC.”

“Scully, you’ve never seen _Citizen Kane_? It’s been hailed as the literal best film of all time. Who hasn’t seen _Citizen Kane_?”

She smiles. No walking on eggshells around the dying for Mulder. 

“Interestingly enough, I’ve never been a big fan of mystery dramas.” This strange, foreign feeling fills her stomach like a balloon. She feels it wriggling, rippling upwards, and when she opens her mouth it bubbles out. She laughs. He laughs too, because they both know their whole goddamn lives are one big mystery drama.

“Better late than–” he starts, but thinks better of it. _Never_. The room swallows their laughter like a vacuum.

“How many times have you seen it?” She breaks the silence, tries to rewind.

“A handful,” he says, shrugging. 

“Think you could come up with a couple of movie night rules?” Her eyes stay dry through sheer force of will. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles softly, “I could do that. But uh, what do we do instead of drink?” 

She holds a finger up and he leans back in the chair with his arms crossed, intrigued. She turns to the night side table and opens a drawer, pulling out half a dozen assorted jello cups. 

“What the hell?” Mulder asks, rifling through them as she places them on the bed between her legs.

“My mother brings them to me from the cafeteria every time she stops in. I can’t eat them fast enough, but I don’t have the heart to ask her to stop. I’ve been stock piling.” She spreads them out, sorts them into a neat array. Two cherry, one lime, one blueberry, and–

“Margarita flavored?” Mulder guffaws. 

“This one’s piña colado.” She produces the last of the cups and trades Mulder for the margarita. “New flavors, apparently. Interesting distribution choice, in my opinion.” 

“Gives a whole new meaning to taking a jello shot,” he says, still wrapped up in the packaging of the piña colado flavored cup. 

“Pick three,” she says, eyeing the cherry. 

“Lime for sure. No?” He asks when she crinkles her nose.

“Certainly not my first choice, so I’m glad you want it. Okay, lime, and…”

“I’ll take the blueberry, too. And before I pick my third, I have to ask.” With his jello-free hand, he reaches for the margarita cup. Holding the two out, weighing them contemplatively, he asks, “Do you like getting caught in the rain? Or are you searching for your lost shaker of salt?”

"Surprise me,” she says, and that funny feeling in her stomach is back.

—

The TV glows blue, as do Mulder’s lips, when the credits roll. She lowers the volume and turns to face him, heavy eyelids warring with the mortal fear of closing them. 

“Mulder,” she starts, but there is no other thought, no continuation. Just him. 

There is no hiding in a hospital room at night.

She reaches for him and he comes. Climbs in behind her on the bed, wraps her up in his arms. He holds her, just holds her. 

_Ping._ **beep.** _Ping._ **beep.**

“I don’t want to die.” It’s almost inaudible. She’s never spoken the words aloud.

He wordlessly pulls her closer to him. She feels so small. He traces patterns on her hand as she clasps it tight to her chest.

“Mulder, when I… I need you to know–”

“We have time,” he interrupts gently, whispering into her hairline. He presses a kiss there, behind her ear. 

“Mulder–”

“We have time.” He says it with such authority that she almost believes him. She drifts off into a semi-consciousness punctuated by Mulder’s silent sobs when he believes she’s asleep. And her vitals machine. 

_Ping._ **beep.**


End file.
